CURIOSITIES RESPECTING MAN.—(Continued.)

Astonishing Acquisitions made by Blind Persons.

We find various recompenses for blindness, or substitutes for the use of the eyes, in the wonderful sagacity of many blind persons, recited by Zahnius, in his ‘Oculus Artificialis,’ and others. In some, the defect has been supplied by a most excellent gift of remembering what they had seen; in others, by a delicate nose, or the sense of smelling; in others, by an exquisite touch, or a sense of feeling, which they have had in such perfection, that, as it has been said of some, they learned to hear with their eyes, so it may be said of these, that they taught themselves to see with their hands. Some have been enabled to perform all sorts of curious and subtle works in the nicest and most dexterous manner.—Aldrovanus speaks of a sculptor who became blind at twenty years of age, and yet, ten years after, made a perfect marble statue of Cosmo II. de Medicis; and another of clay, like Urban VIII. Bartholin tells us of a blind sculptor in Denmark, who distinguished perfectly well, by mere touch, not only all kinds of wood, but all the colours; and F. Grimaldi gives an instance of the like kind; besides the blind organist, living in Paris, who is said to have done the same. The most extraordinary of all is a blind guide, who, according to the report of good writers, used to conduct the merchants through the sands and deserts of Arabia.

James Bernouilli contrived a method of teaching blind persons to write. An instance, no less extraordinary, is mentioned by Dr. Bew, in the “Transactions of the Manchester Society.” It is that of a person, whose name is John Metcalf, a native of the neighbourhood of Manchester, who became blind at so early an age as to be altogether unconscious of light, and its various effects. His employment in the younger period of his life was that of a waggoner, and occasionally as a guide in intricate roads during the night, or when the common tracks were covered with snow. Afterwards he became a projector and surveyor of highways in difficult and mountainous parts; and, in this capacity, with the assistance merely of a long staff, he traverses the roads, ascends precipices, explores valleys, and investigates their several extents, forms, and situations, so as to answer his purpose in the best manner. His plans are designed, and his estimates formed, with such ability and accuracy, that he has been employed in altering most of the roads over the Peak in Derbyshire, particularly those in the vicinity of Buxton; and in constructing a new one between Wilmslow and Congleton, so as to form a communication between the great London road, without being obliged to pass over the mountain.

Although blind persons have occasion, in a variety of respects, to deplore their infelicity, their misery is in a considerable degree alleviated by advantages peculiar to themselves. They are capable of a more fixed and steady attention to the objects of their mental contemplation, than those who are distracted by the view of a variety of external scenes. Their want of sight naturally leads them to avail themselves of their other organs of corporeal sensation, and with this view to cultivate and improve them as much as possible. Accordingly, they derive relief and assistance from the quickness of their hearing, the acuteness of their smell, and the sensibility of their touch, which persons who see are apt to disregard.

Many contrivances have also been devised by the ingenious, for supplying the want of sight, and for facilitating those analytical or mechanical operations, which would otherwise perplex the most vigorous mind, and the most retentive memory. By means of these, they have become eminent proficients in various departments of science. Indeed, there are few sciences in which, with or without mechanical helps, the blind have not distinguished themselves. The case of Professor Saunderson at Cambridge, is well known. His attainments and performances in the languages, and also as a learner and teacher in the abstract mathematics, in philosophy, and in music, have been truly astonishing; and the account of them appears to be almost incredible, if it were not amply attested and confirmed by many other instances of a similar kind, both in ancient and modern times.

Cicero mentions it as a fact scarcely credible, with respect to his master in philosophy, Diodotus, that “he exercised himself in it with greater assiduity after he became blind; and, which he thought next to impossible to be performed without sight, that he professed geometry, and described his diagrams so accurately to his scholars, as to enable them to draw every line in its proper direction.”

Jerome relates a more remarkable instance of Didymus in Alexandria, who “though blind from his infancy, and therefore ignorant of the letters, appeared so great a miracle to the world, as not only to learn logic, but geometry also to perfection; which seems (he adds) the most of any thing to require the help of sight.”

Professor Saunderson, who was deprived of his sight by the small-pox when he was only twelve months old, seems to have acquired most of his ideas by the sense of feeling; and though he could not distinguish colours by that sense, which, after repeated trials, he said was pretending to impossibilities, yet he was able, with the greatest exactness, to discriminate the minutest difference between rough and smooth on a surface, or the least defect of polish. In a set of Roman medals, he could distinguish the genuine from the false, though they had been counterfeited in such a manner as to deceive a connoisseur, who judged of them by the eye. His sense of feeling was so acute, that he could perceive the least variation in the state of the air; and, it is said, that in a garden where observations were made on the sun, he took notice of every cloud that interrupted the observation, almost as justly as those who could see it. He could tell when any thing was held near his face, or when he passed by a tree at no great distance, provided the air was calm, and there was little or no wind; this he did by the different pulse of air upon his face. He possessed a sensibility of hearing to such a degree, that he could distinguish even the fifth part of a note; and, by the quickness of this sense, he not only discriminated persons with whom he had once conversed so long as to fix in his memory the sound of their voice, but he could judge of the size of a room into which he was introduced, and of his distance from the wall; and if he had ever walked over a pavement in courts, piazzas, &c. which reflected a sound, and was afterwards conducted thither again, he could exactly tell in what part of the walk he was placed, merely by the note which it sounded.

Sculpture and painting are arts which, one would imagine, are of very difficult and almost impracticable attainment to blind persons; and yet instances occur, which shew, that they are not excluded from the pleasing, creative, and extensive regions of fancy.

De Piles mentions a blind sculptor, who thus took the likeness of the Duke de Bracciano in a dark cellar, and made a marble statue of King Charles I. with great justness and elegance. However unaccountable it may appear to the abstract philosopher, yet nothing is more certain in fact, than that a blind man may, by the inspiration of the Muses, or rather by the efforts of a cultivated genius, exhibit in poetry the most natural images and animated descriptions even of visible objects, without deservedly incurring the charge of plagiarism. We need not recur to Homer and Milton for attestations to this fact; they had probably been long acquainted with the visible world before they had lost their sight, and their descriptions might be animated with all the rapture and enthusiasm which originally fired their bosoms, when the grand and delightful objects delineated by them were immediately beheld. We are furnished with instances in which a similar energy and transport of description, at least in a very considerable degree, have been exhibited by those on whose minds visible objects were never impressed, or have been entirely obliterated.

Dr. Blacklock affords a surprising instance of this kind; who, though he had lost his sight before he was six months old, not only made himself master of various languages, Greek, Latin, Italian, and French; but acquired the reputation of an excellent poet, whose performances abound with appropriate images and animated descriptions.

Dr. Nicholas Bacon, a blind gentleman, descended from the same family with the celebrated Lord Verulam, was, in the city of Brussels, with high approbation created LL. D. He was deprived of sight at nine years of age by an arrow from a cross-bow, whilst he was attempting to shoot it. When he had recovered his health, which had suffered by the shock, he pursued the same plan of education in which he had been engaged; and having heard that one Nicasius de Vourde, born blind, who lived towards the end of the fifteenth century, after having distinguished himself by his studies in the university of Louvain, took his degree as D. D. in that of Cologne, he resolved to make the same attempt. After continuing his studies in learning philosophy and law a sufficient time, he took his degree, commenced pleading as counsellor or advocate in the council of Brabant, and has had the pleasure of terminating almost every suit in which he has been engaged to the satisfaction of his clients.

Another instance, which deserves being recorded, is that of Dr. Henry Moyes, in our own country; who, though blind from his infancy, by the ardour and assiduity of his application, and by the energy of native genius, not only made incredible advances in mechanical operations, in music, and in the languages; but acquired an extensive acquaintance with geometry, optics, algebra, astronomy, chemistry, and all other branches of natural philosophy.

From the account of Dr. Moyes, who occasionally read lectures on philosophical chemistry at Manchester, delivered to the Manchester Society by Dr. Bew, it appears, that mechanical exercises were the favourite employment of his infant years: and that at a very early age he was so well acquainted with the use of edge-tools, as to be able to construct little windmills, and even a loom. By the sound, and the different voices of the persons that were present, he was directed in his judgment of the dimensions of the room in which they were assembled; and in this respect he determined with such a degree of accuracy, as seldom to be mistaken. His memory was singularly retentive; so that he was capable of recognizing a person on his first speaking, though he had not been in company with him for two years. He determined with surprising exactness the stature of those with whom he conversed, by the direction of their voices; and he made tolerable conjectures concerning their dispositions, by the manner in which they conducted their conversation. His eyes, though he never recollected having seen, were not totally insensible to intense light: but the rays refracted through a prism, when sufficiently vivid, produced distinguishable effects upon them. The red produced a disagreeable sensation, which he compared to the touch of a saw. As the colours declined in violence, the harshness lessened, until the green afforded a sensation that was highly pleasing to him, and which he described as conveying an idea similar to that which he gained by running his hand over smooth polished surfaces. Such surfaces, meandering streams, and gentle declivities, were the figures by which he expressed his ideas of beauty; rugged rocks, irregular points, and boisterous elements, furnished him with expressions for terror and disgust. He excelled in the charms of conversation; was happy in his allusions to visual objects, and discoursed on the nature, composition, and beauty of colours, with pertinence and precision.

This instance, and some others which have occurred, seem to furnish a presumption, that the feeling or touch of blind persons may be so improved as to enable them to perceive that texture and disposition of coloured surfaces by which some rays of light are reflected, and others absorbed; and in this manner to distinguish colours.

In music, there are at present living instances of how far the blind may proceed. In former periods we shall find illustrious examples, how amply nature has capacitated the blind to excel, both in the scientific and practical departments of music.

In the sixteenth century, when the progress of improvement both in melody and harmony was rapid and conspicuous, Francis Salinas was eminently distinguished. He was born A. D. 1513, at Burgos in Spain; and was son to the treasurer of that city. Though afflicted with incurable blindness, he was profoundly skilled both in the theory and practice of music. As a performer, he is celebrated by his contemporaries with the highest encomiums. As a theorist, Sir John Hawkins says, his book is equal in value to any now extant in any language. Though he was deprived of sight in his earliest infancy, he did not content himself to delineate the various phenomena in music, but the principles from whence they result, the relations of sound, the nature of arithmetical, geometrical, and harmonical ratios, which were then esteemed essential to the theory of music, with a degree of intelligence which would have deserved admiration, though he had been in full possession of every sense requisite for these disquisitions. He was taken to Rome in the retinue of Petrus Sarmentus, archbishop of Compostella, and having passed twenty years in Italy, he returned to Salamanca, where he obtained the professorship of music, an office at that time equally respectable and lucrative. Having discharged it with reputation and success for some time, he died at the venerable age of seventy-seven.

In the same period flourished Caspar Crumbhom, blind from the third year of his age; yet he composed several pieces in many parts with so much success, and performed both upon the flute and violin so exquisitely, that he was distinguished by Augustus, elector of Saxony. But preferring his native country, Silesia, to every other, he returned to it, and was appointed organist of the church of St. Peter and Paul in Lignitz, where he had often the direction of the musical college, and died June 11, 1621.To these might be added Martin Pesenti of Venice, a composer of vocal and instrumental music almost of all kinds, though blind from his nativity; with other examples equally worthy of public attention. But if vulgar prejudice is capable of blushing at its own contemptible character, or of yielding to conviction, those already quoted are more than sufficient to shew the musical jugglers of our time that their art is no monopoly, with which those alone who see are invested, by the irrevocable decree of heaven.

In the Annual Register for 1762, the following narrative of the surprising acquisitions of a blind lady is inserted. “A young gentlewoman of a good family in France, now in her eighteenth year, lost her sight when only two years old, her mother having been advised to lay some pigeon’s blood on her eyes, to preserve them in the small-pox; whereas, so far from answering the end, it eat into them. Nature, however, may be said to have compensated for the unhappy mistake, by beauty of person, sweetness of temper, vivacity of genius, quickness of conception, and many talents which certainly much alleviate her misfortune. She plays at cards with the same readiness as others of the party. She first prepares the pack allotted to her, by pricking them in several parts; yet so imperceptibly, that the closest inspection can scarce discern her indexes: she sorts the suits, and arranges the cards in their proper sequence, with the same precision, and nearly the same facility, as they who have their sight. All she requires of those who play with her, is to name every card as it is played; and these she retains so exactly, that she frequently performs some notable strokes, such as shew a great combination and strong memory. The most wonderful circumstance is, that she should have learned to read and write; but even this is readily believed on knowing her method. In writing to her, no ink is used, but the letters are pricked down on the paper, and by the delicacy of her touch, feeling each letter, she follows them successively, and reads every word with her finger ends. She herself in writing makes use of a pencil, as she could not know when her pen was dry; her guide on the paper is a small thin ruler, and of the breadth of the writing. On finishing a letter, she wets it, so as to fix the traces of her pencil, that they are not obscured or effaced; then proceeds to fold and seal it, and write the direction; all by her own address, and without the assistance of any other person. Her writing is very straight, well cut, and the spelling no less correct. To reach this singular mechanism, the indefatigable cares of her affectionate mother were long employed, who accustomed her daughter to feel letters cut in cards of pasteboard, brought her to distinguish an A from a B, and thus the whole alphabet, and afterwards to spell words; then, by the remembrance of the shape of the letters, to delineate them on paper; and, lastly, to arrange them so as to form words and sentences. She has learned to play on the guitar, and has even contrived a way of pricking down the tunes, as an assistance to her memory. So delicate are her organs, that in singing a tune, though new to her, she is able to name the notes. In figured dances she acquits herself extremely well, and in a minuet, with inimitable ease and gracefulness. As for the works of her sex, she has a masterly hand; she sews and hems perfectly well; and in all her works she threads her needles for herself, however small. By the watch her touch never fails telling her exactly the hour and minute.”

Diderot gives a very curious account of a blind lady. It is so remarkable, that we shall distinguish it by the separate title of Wonderful Performances of a Female, Blind almost from Infancy.

The name of this remarkable person was, Mademoiselle Melanie de Salignac, a young lady, who had been blind almost from her birth. Her feeling, hearing, and smell, were exquisite. She could distinguish, by the impression of the air, whether it was fine or cloudy, whether she was in an open place or a street, and whether the street was open at the end;—also, whether she was in a room or not, and of what size it was. Having once gone over a house, she became so well acquainted with the different parts, as to be able to warn others of any danger they were exposed to, by the existence of a step, or the lowness of a door. She could thread the smallest needle, with the greatest dexterity; and could execute every sort of needle-work. She played very well at many games at cards, which she distinguished by some little mark, known to herself by the touch, but imperceptible to the sight of any other person. She had learnt, and understood very well, music, geography, geometry, and dancing. She was, indeed, extremely clever; what made her more interesting, she was modest, mild, cheerful, and affectionate. She wrote with a pin, by pricking a sheet of paper, stretched on a frame, and read what she had written, by feeling the pin-marks on the other side of the paper. She could read a book, printed on one side only; some were printed expressly for her, in this manner. In a piece of twelve or fifteen lines, if the number of letters in each word, together with the letter which it began with, was given her, she could tell every word, however oddly composed. “This fact,” says Diderot, “was attested by every one of her family, by myself, and twenty other persons, still alive. She died at the age of twenty-two. She was the daughter of Madame de Blacy, a woman distinguished for the eminence of her moral qualities,” and moving in a respectable sphere of life.—See Grimn’s Memoirs.

We now proceed to detail the following Wonderful Instances of Adroitness of Persons born defective in their Limbs.

Several instances of such births have occurred, and the wonderful acquirements of persons thus maimed by nature have often been the subject of public astonishment, and proved a source of gain to themselves or their relations.

Giraldus Cambriensis speaks of a young woman born without arms, whom he saw at Chester, in the reign of Henry II. He mentions her working very dexterously with her needle.

Stowe gives an account of a Dutchman born without arms, who in 1581, exhibited surprising feats of activity in London; such as flourishing with a rapier, shooting an arrow near a mark, &c.

Bulwer, in his Artificial Changeling, speaks of John Simons, a native of Berkshire, born without arms or hands, who could write with his mouth; thread a needle; tie a knot; shuffle, cut, and deal a pack of cards, &c. He was shewn in public in 1653.

John Sear, a Spaniard, born without arms, was shewn in London in King William’s reign, who could comb and shave himself, fill a glass, thread a needle, embroider, write six sorts of hands, and play on several instruments of music.

Matthew Buckinger, a German, born without arms or legs, who came to England, wrote a good hand, (many specimens of which are extant,) and performed several wonderful feats. He died in 1722, aged forty-eight.

Thomas Pinnington, a native of Liverpool, born without legs or arms, performed much the same feats as Sear, in 1744, and several years ensuing; since which, a Miss Hawtin, from Coventry, born without arms, and others whose names have not been mentioned, have exhibited themselves at Bartholomew Fair and other places.

Thomas Inglefield, born without arms or legs, at Hook, in Hampshire, (anno 1769) died a few years ago in London. He was not publicly shewn, but got his bread by writing and drawing. There are two portraits of him, one of which was etched by himself.

There was, a short time since, a farmer living at Ditch-heat in Somersetshire, born without arms,—William Kingston, of whom frequent mention has been made in the public papers. He surpasses, according to accounts which seem very well attested, all that have been yet spoken of.

The following account was given a few years since, in the papers, by a person who visited him. “In order to give the public a satisfactory account of William Kingston,” says the writer, “I went to Ditcheat and the next morning got him to breakfast with me at Mrs. Goodfellow’s, and had ocular proof of his dexterity. He highly entertained us at breakfast, by putting his half-naked feet upon the table as he sat, and carrying his tea and toast between his great and second toe to his mouth, with as much facility as if his foot had been a hand, and his toes fingers. I put half a sheet of paper upon the floor, with a pen and ink-horn. He threw off his shoes as he sat, took the ink-horn in the toes of his left foot, and held the pen in those of his right. He then wrote three lines as well as most ordinary writers, and as swiftly. He writes all his own bills and other accounts. He then shewed me how he shaves himself with the razor in his toes; and he can comb his own hair. He can dress and undress himself, except buttoning his clothes. He feeds himself, and can bring both his meat or his broth to his mouth, by holding the fork or spoon in his toes. He cleans his own shoes, lights the fire, and does almost any domestic business as well as any other man. He can make hen-coops. He is a farmer by occupation. He can milk his cows with his toes, and cuts his own hay, binds it up in bundles, and carries it about the field for his cattle. Last winter he had eight heifers constantly to fodder. The last summer he made all his hay-ricks. He can do all the business of the hay-field (except mowing) as fast and as well with his feet as others can with rakes and forks. He goes to the field, and catches his horse. He saddles and bridles him with his teeth and toes. If he has a sheep among his flock that ails any thing, he can separate it from the rest, and drive it into a corner when nobody else can: he then examines it, and applies a remedy to it. He is so strong in his teeth, that he can lift ten pecks of beans with them. He can throw a great sledge-hammer as far with his feet, as other men can with their hands. In a word, he can nearly do as much without as others can with their arms.

“He began the world with a hen and chickens. With the profit on these he procured a ewe. The sale of these procured a ragged colt (as he termed it) and a sheep, and he now occupies a small farm.”

“Necessity is the mother of invention.” This proverb was never more fully exemplified than in the cases above mentioned. Habit, early acquired and long practised, may render the toes almost as useful as the fingers: the lips are also endued with acute feeling and great flexibility, and may become powerful assistants where the hands are wanting. One lesson, at least, may be taught by this maimed tribe:—that few things are so difficult, that they cannot be acquired by perseverance and application.

While some persons are noted for their extraordinary and wonderful faculties, others are remarkable for defects in natural capacities. The reader will feel interested in the following Curious Account of Incapacity of distinguishing Colours.

Of this extraordinary defect in vision, we have the following instances in the Philosophical Transactions for 1777. One of the persons lived at Maryport in Cumberland. The account was communicated by Mr. Huddart to Dr. Priestley; and is as follows:—“His name was Harris; by trade a shoemaker. I had often heard from others that he could discern the form and magnitude of all objects very distinctly, but could not distinguish colours. This report had excited my curiosity; I conversed with him frequently on the subject. The account he gave was this: That he had reason to believe other persons saw something in objects which he could not see: that their language seemed to mark qualities with precision and confidence, which he could only guess at with hesitation, and frequently with error. His first suspicion of this arose when he was about four years old. Having by accident found in the street, a child’s stocking, he carried it to a neighbouring house to inquire for the owner: he observed the people called it a red stocking, though he did not understand why they gave it that denomination, as he himself thought it completely described by being called a stocking. This circumstance, however, remained in his memory, and together with subsequent observations, led him to the knowledge of this defect. He also observed, that when young, other children could discern cherries on a tree by some pretended difference of colour, though he could only distinguish them from the leaves, by the difference of their size and shape. He observed also, that by means of this difference of colour they could see the cherries at a greater distance than he could, though he could see other objects at as great a distance as they, that is, where the sight was not assisted by the colour. Large objects he could see as well as other persons; and even the smaller ones, if they were not enveloped in other things, as in the case of cherries among the leaves. I believe he could never do more than guess the name of any colour; yet he could distinguish white from black, or black from any light or bright colour. Dove or straw colour he called white, and different colours he frequently called by the same name; yet he could discern a difference between them when placed together. In general, colours of an equal degree of brightness, however they might otherwise differ, he confounded together. Yet a striped ribbon he could distinguish from a plain one; but he could not tell what the colours were with any tolerable exactness. Dark colours, in general, he often mistook for black; but never imagined white to be a dark colour, nor dark to be a white colour. He was an intelligent man, and very desirous of understanding the nature of light and colours, for which end he had attended a course of lectures in natural philosophy. He had two brothers in the same circumstances as to sight; and two others (brothers and sisters) who, as well as their parents, had nothing of this defect. One of the first mentioned brothers, who is now living, I met with at Dublin, and wished to try his capacity to distinguish the colours in a prism; but not having one by me, I asked him, whether he had ever seen a rainbow? he replied, he had often; and could distinguish the different colours; meaning only, that it was composed of different colours, for he could not tell what they were. I then procured, and shewed him a piece of ribbon: he immediately, and without any difficulty, pronounced it a striped, and not a plain, ribbon. He then attempted to name the different stripes: the several stripes of white he uniformly, and without hesitation, called white: the four black stripes he was deceived in; for three of them he thought brown, though they were exactly of the same shade with the other, which he properly called black. He spoke, however, with diffidence, as to all those stripes; and it must be owned, that the black was not very distinct: the light green he called yellow; but he was not very positive: he said, “I think this what you call yellow.” The middle stripe, which had a slight tinge of red, he called a sort of blue. But he was most of all deceived by the orange colour: of this he spoke very confidently, saying, “This is the colour of grass, this is green.” I also shewed him a great variety of ribbons, the colour of which he sometimes named rightly, and sometimes as differently as possible from the true colour. I asked him, whether he imagined it possible for all the various colours he saw to be mere difference of light and shade; and that all colours could be composed of these two mixtures only? With some hesitation he replied, No, he did imagine there was some other difference. It is proper to add, that the experiment of the striped ribbon was made in the day-time, and in a good light.”

Incredible as the above phenomena may appear, we can add the following fact in confirmation of them, from personal knowledge. There is a gentleman now living in Edinburgh, whose optical nerves have laboured under a defect perfectly similar, since his infancy; but whose powers of vision are in other respects so much superior to those of most other people, that he draws the most striking likenesses, being a limner by profession, and requires for this purpose only once to see the person whose portrait is intended to be drawn, scarcely desiring a single sitting, much less repeated visiting. And what is still more extraordinary, he can, from such a momentary glance, retain the idea of the features, and even the gait and manner of the person, for years afterwards, so exactly as to be able to finish either a miniature head, or full portrait, at that distant period, as well as if the person were present. His friends, incredulous of this phenomenon, have, by placing his colours out of the order in which he keeps them, sometimes made him give a gentleman a green beard, and paint a beautiful young lady with a pair of blue cheeks.

We now proceed to the consideration of a very remarkable acquirement of man, called Ventriloquism.

This is an art of speaking, by means of which the human voice and other sounds are rendered audible, as if they proceeded from several different places; though the utterer does not change his place, and in many instances does not appear to speak. It has been supposed to be a natural peculiarity; because few, if any persons, have learned it by being taught, and we have had no rules laid down for acquiring it. It seems to have been in consequence of this notion, that the name ‘Ventriloquism’ has been applied to it, from a supposition that the voice proceeds from the thorax or chest. It has seldom been practised but by persons of the lower classes of society; and as it does not seem to present any advantages beyond that of causing surprise and entertainment, and cannot be exhibited on an extended theatre, the probability is, that it will continue amongst them.

Mr. Gough, in his Manchester Memoirs, and in various parts of Nicholson’s Journal, has entertained the opinion that the voice of ventriloquists is made to proceed, in appearance, from different parts of a room, by the management of an echo. But the facts themselves do not support this hypothesis, as a great and sudden variety and change of echoes would be required; and his own judicious remarks, in the same work, on the facility with which we are deceived as to the direction of sound, are adverse to his theory. From numerous attentive observations, it appears manifest that the art is not peculiar to certain individuals, but may with facility be acquired by any person of accurate observation. It consists merely in an imitation of sounds, as they occur in nature, accompanied with appropriate action, of such a description as may best concur in leading the minds of the observers to favour the deception.

Any one who shall try, will be a little surprised to find how easy it is to imitate the noise made by a saw, or by a snuff-box when opened and shut, or by a large hand-bell, or cork-cutter’s knife, a watch while going, and numberless other inanimate objects; or the voices of animals, in their various situations and necessities, such as a cat, a dog, or a hen enraged, intimidated, confined, &c.; or to vary the character of the human voice by shrillness or depth of tone, rapidity or drawling of execution, and distinctness or imperfection of articulation, which may be instantly changed by holding the mouth a little more opened or more closed than usual, altering the position of the jaw, keeping the tongue in any determinate situation, &c. And every one of the imitations of the ventriloquist will be rendered more perfect by practising them at the very time the sounds are heard, instead of depending on the memory. The leading condition of performance is, that the voices and sounds of the dramatic dialogue to be exhibited, should succeed each other so rapidly that the audience should lose sight of the probability that one actor gives effect to the whole, and that where the business is simple, the aid of scenery or local circumstance should be called in.

We have seen an eminent philosopher of our own time, who had no previous practice of this art, but when speaking on the subject in a mixed company, took up a hat, and folding the flaps together, said, by way of example, “Suppose I had a small monkey in this hat;” and then cautiously putting his hand in, as if to catch it, he imitated the chatter of the supposed struggling animal, at the same time that his own efforts to secure it had a momentary impression on the spectators, which left no time to question whether there was a monkey in it or not: this impression was completed when, the instant afterwards, he pulled out his hand as if hurt, and exclaimed, “He has bit me!” It was not till then that the impression of the reality gave way to the diversion arising from the mimic art; and one of the company, even then, cried out, “Is there really a monkey in the hat?”

In this manner it was that, at the beginning of the last century, the famous Tom King, who is said to have been the first man who delivered public lectures on experimental philosophy in the country, was attended by the whole fashionable world, for a succession of many nights, to hear him “kill a calf.” This performance was done in a separated part of the place of exhibition, into which the exhibiter retired alone; and the imagination of his polite hearers was taxed to supply the calf and three butchers, besides a dog who sometimes raised his voice, and was checked for his unnecessary exertions. It appears, from traditional narrative, that the calf was heard to be dragged in, not without some efforts and conversation on the part of the butchers, and noisy resistance from the calf; that they conversed on the qualities of the animal, and the profits to be expected from the veal; and that, as they proceeded, all the noises of knife and steel, of suspending the creature, and of the last fatal catastrophe, were heard in rapid succession, to the never-failing satisfaction of the attendants; who, upon the rise of the curtain, saw that all these imaginary personages had vanished, and Tom King alone remained to claim the applause.

A similar fact may be quoted in the person of that facetious gentleman, who has assumed and given celebrity to the name of Peter Pindar. This great poet, laughing at the proverbial poverty of his profession, is sometimes pleased to entertain his friends with singular effusions of the art we speak of. One of these is managed by a messenger announcing to the Doctor (in the midst of company) that a person wants to speak with him: he accordingly goes out, leaving the door a-jar, and immediately a female voice is heard, which, from the nature of the subject, appears to be that of the Poet’s laundress, who complains of her pressing wants, disappointed claims, and of broken promises no longer to be borne with patience. It is more easy to imagine than describe the mixed emotions of the audience. The scene, however, goes on by the Doctor’s reply; who remonstrates, promises, and is rather angry at the time and place of this unwelcome visit. His antagonist unfortunately is neither mollified nor disposed to quit her ground. Passion increases on both sides, and the Doctor forgets himself so far as to threaten the irritated female; she defies him, and this last promise, very unlike the former ones, is followed by payment; a severe smack on the face is heard; the poor woman falls down stairs, with horrid outcries; the company, of course, rises in alarm, and the Doctor is found in a state of perfect tranquillity, apparently a stranger to the whole transaction.

A very able ventriloquist, Fitz-James, performed in public, in Soho-square, about four years ago. He personated various characters by appropriate dresses; and by a command of the muscles of his face he could very much alter his appearance. He imitated many inanimate noises, and among others, a repetition of noises of the water machine at Marli. He conversed with some statues, which replied to him; and also with some persons supposed to be in the room above, and on the landing-place; gave the watchman’s cry, gradually approaching, and when he seemed opposite the window, Fitz-James opened it and asked what the time was, received the answer, and during his proceeding with his cry, Fitz-James shut the window, immediately upon which the sound became weaker, and at last insensible. In the whole of his performance, it was clear that the notions of the audience were governed by the auxiliary circumstances, as to direction, &c. This mimic had, at least, six different habitual modes of speaking, which he could instantly adapt one after the other, and with so much rapidity, that when in a small closet, parted off in the room, he gave a long, confused, and impassioned debate of democrats (in French, as almost the whole of his performance was;) it seemed to proceed from a multitude of speakers: and an inaccurate observer might have thought that several were speaking at once. A ludicrous scene of drawing a tooth was performed in the same manner.

These examples, and many more which might be added, are sufficient, in proof that ventriloquism is the art of mimicry, an imitation applied to sounds of every description, and attended with circumstances which produce an entertaining deception, and lead the hearers to imagine that the voice proceeds from different situations. When distant low voices are to be imitated, the articulation may be given with sufficient distinctness, without moving the lips, or altering the countenance. It was by a supposed supernatural voice of this kind, from a ventriloquist, that the famous musical small-coal man, Thomas Britton, received a warning of his death, which so greatly affected him, that he did not survive the affright.

The following quotation from Richerand’s Physiology will be sufficient to give the reader a further idea of the mechanism of this singular art. “At first,” says Richerand, “I had conjectured that a great portion of the air driven out by expiration did not pass out by the mouth and nostrils, but was swallowed and carried into the stomach, reflected in some part of the digestive canal, and gave rise to a real echo; but after having attentively observed this curious phenomenon, in Mr. Fitz-James, who represents it in its greatest perfection, I was enabled to convince myself that the name ventriloquism is by no means applicable, since the whole of its mechanism consists in a slow gradual expiration, drawn in such a way that the artist either makes use of the influence exerted by volition over the muscles or parietis of the thorax, or that he keeps the epiglottis down by the base of the tongue, the apex of which is not carried beyond the dental arches.

“He always makes a strong inspiration just before this long expiration, and thus conveys a considerable mass of air into the lungs, the exit of which he afterwards manages with such address. Therefore, repletion of the stomach greatly incommodes the talent of Mr. Fitz-James, by preventing the diaphragm from descending sufficiently to admit of a dilatation of the thorax, in proportion to the quantity of air that the lungs should receive. By accelerating or retarding the exit of the air, he can imitate different voices, and induce his auditors to a belief that the interlocutors of a dialogue, which is kept up by himself alone, are placed at different distances; and this illusion is the more complete in proportion to the perfection of his peculiar talent. No man possesses, to such a degree as Mr. Fitz-James, the art of deceiving persons who are least liable to delusion, he can carry his execution to five or six different tones, pass rapidly from one to another, as he does when representing an animated dispute in the midst of a popular assembly.”

Some persons are of opinion that the witch of Endor was a ventriloquist, and that she practised this art before King Saul, and deceived him in the resurrection of Samuel; the present writer, however, does not vouch for this opinion.

Another very extraordinary acquirement, and which the present writer has been witness to, is, Sword-swallowing.

This surprising act is performed by the Indian Jugglers; the following account of which, is extracted from Forbes’s Oriental Memoirs.

“I have elsewhere mentioned some feats of the Indian Jugglers: at Zinore I saw one which surpassed every thing of the kind I had before witnessed, I mean the swallowing a sword up to the hilt. Had I not afterwards met with the same set on the island of Salsette, exhibiting before the English chief at Tannah, I should have doubted the evidence of my senses. I witnessed the fact more than once, and am convinced there was no deception. Finding my tale generally disbelieved in Europe, I suppressed it; but having since read a clear and satisfactory account of this extraordinary transaction, drawn up by Mr. Johnson, surgeon in the navy, who, in the year 1804, was an eye-witness of this performance, and having described it as a professional man, I shall transcribe the account from his memoir:—

“‘Having been visited by one of these conjurers, I resolved to see clearly his mode of performing this operation; and for that purpose ordered him to seat himself on the floor of the veranda. The sword he intended to use has some resemblance to a common spit in shape, except at the handle, which is merely a part of the blade itself, rounded and elongated into a little rod. It is from twenty-two to twenty-six inches in length, about an inch in breadth, and about one-fifth of an inch in thickness; the edges and point are blunt, being rounded, and of the same thickness as the rest of the blade; it is of iron or steel, smooth, and a little bright. Having satisfied himself with respect to the sword, by attempting to bend it; and by striking it against a stone, I firmly grasped it by the handle, and ordered him to proceed. He first took a small phial of oil, and with one of his fingers rubbed a little of it over the surface of the instrument; then, stretching up his neck as much as possible, and bending himself a little backwards, he introduced the point of it into his mouth, and pushed it gently down his throat, until my hand, which was on the handle, came in contact with his lips. He then made a sign to me with one of his hands, to feel the point of the instrument between his breast and navel: which I could do, by bending him a little more backwards, and pressing my fingers on his stomach, he being a very thin and lean fellow. On letting go the handle of the sword, he instantly fixed on it a little machine that spun round, and disengaged a small fire-work, which encircling his head with a blue flame, gave him, as he then sat, a truly diabolical appearance. On withdrawing the instrument, several parts of its surface were covered with blood, which shewed that he was still obliged to use a degree of violence in the introduction.

“‘I was at first a good deal surprised at this transaction altogether; but when I came to reflect a little upon it, there appeared nothing at all improbable, much less impossible, in the business. He told me, on giving him a trifle, that he had been accustomed, from his early years, to introduce at first small elastic instruments down his throat, and into his stomach; that by degrees he had used larger ones, until at length he was able to use the present iron sword.’” Oriental Memoirs, vol. ii. pp. 515-517.

Two of these jugglers have lately visited England, and performed the above exploit, with many others, almost equally surprising, to the satisfaction of crowded audiences.

We may learn from various instances in this chapter the value of perseverance; this will overcome difficulties, which at first appear insuperable; and it is amazing to consider, how great and numerous obstacles may be removed by a continual attention to any particular point. By such attention and perseverance, what may not man effect! Any man, unless he be an absolute idiot, may by these means raise himself to excellence in some branch or other; and what is best of all, by divine assistance, and by unwearied and keen application, he may resist temptation, conquer the evil principle, rise superior to all the difficulties and trials of life, excel in wisdom and goodness, and thus be fitted for a better country, when death summons him away from the present world.

—————————————Man must soar.
An obstinate activity within,
An insuppressive spring, will toss him up,
In spite of fortune’s load. Not kings alone,
Each villager has his ambition too;
No sultan prouder than his fetter’d slave.
Slaves build their little Babylons of straw,
Echo the proud Assyrian, in their hearts,
And cry—“Behold the wonders of my might!”
And why? Because immortal as their lord;
And souls immortal must for ever heave
At something great; the glitter, or the gold;
The praise of mortals, or the praise of heav’n.
Young.